


Of Crests and Battle Cries

by inkberrry



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood and Gore, Death, Friends to Lovers, Game Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Post game setting, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Violence, blue lion route ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2020-09-22 23:37:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20330407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkberrry/pseuds/inkberrry
Summary: The war for Fódlan's fate has ended, leaving the country united under a new king. Aftermath comes in many forms and brings with it new struggles both on and off the field of battle. For Linhardt it comes with difficultly sleeping at night, his dreams haunted by deeds committed in the name of peace. The solace he finds in Caspar never wavers, though he knows better than to wish too desperately for more.





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
Few things in the world felt so good as a warm breeze, though soft grass and the fresh and open sky were a close second. Spring had found its way to Garreg Mach after a long winter, and an even longer five years of strife. That was behind it now, in most ways. The war was over, the land and its people changed. Flowers pushing their way through melting frost heralded a new season — the first of many in a new, united Fódlan.  
  
Peace suited Linhardt well, and while he laid with his back against the solid earth and the sun warmed his face he breathed easy. It was the first warm day of the year; warm enough to haul his book into the courtyard and settle under his favorite aspen tree, sleeves rolled half up his arms and hair brushed away from his neck. He could feel the heat on his eyelids as he flitted through drowsy, half-conscious states, occasionally waking fully from a hazy dream.  
  
He could also feel Caspar’s presence nearby. It was a constant, familiar tug in his direction, like a magnetic stone was placed in his pocket and Linhardt’s own. Even with his eyes closed he knew when Caspar shifted against the tree trunk, or when he rolled his shoulders back and the scrape of his leathers marred the bark. Through the chatter of passing monastery inhabitants Linhardt could hear his breathing, too. It worked as a lullaby, putting him deeper at ease and that much closer to sleep.  
  
“Hey, Lin?”  
  
Caspar’s voice floated through Linhardt’s dreams, and the heat on his skin from the sun seemed to flare warmer for an instant. It was too much to ask for a silent afternoon, he knew. Even while he was clearly trying to nap Caspar’s voice found him.  
  
He lifted his hand from where it rested on his stomach and waved it in Caspar’s direction, lazily encouraging him to get on with whatever he was going to say. His eyes remained closed, hoping perhaps his friend would take it as a hint to stay quiet despite the acknowledgment.  
  
Caspar continued on. It wasn’t unexpected, and Linhardt _did_ like the way his voice mingled with the low drone of the Monastery and the leaves in the breeze. It was the words he said that surprised him once they were out though, breeching a topic he tried his best to avoid.  
  
“Do ya ever think about what it would have been like if the Professor hadn’t asked us to join their class? Like, once the war broke out?”  
  
Linhardt opened his eyes and glanced over at Caspar, the patches of grass between them dewy and glistening in his vision. Caspar was still sitting with his back against the aspen, his legs crossed in front of him and hands idly plucking at the grass. There was a pile of it next to his knee as evidence of his hesitation.  
  
“No.”  
  
After answering Linhardt closed his eyes again, though this time he didn’t feel the peace of the sunlight or the comfort that Caspar provided. Instead of swirling yellows and golds beneath his eyelids he saw visions of dusty, red stained battlefields. There was no warm breeze, but instead the heat of burning homes and the acrid scent of bodies set aflame.  
  
“No? Not at all?” Caspar spoke again, his tone prodding. Linhardt didn’t like that tone. Not when it asked about things that had no reason to be discussed or even thought about. “I mean, we could have had to fight each other. Not just us and the others but like, you and _me_. Cause I sure as hell wasn’t going to help my dad.”  
  
Winter must still have been lingering, as Linhardt felt a sharp stab in his chest like frozen air entering his lungs. For an instant it was a struggle to breathe, and when he could again his body was cold to the tips of his fingers.  
  
“No, Caspar,” he said, and pushed himself to a seated position before unrolling his sleeves to cover his arms. “I don’t think about what it would have been like to fight you. And I don’t want to have this conversation.”  
  
Caspar’s expression fell and Linhardt almost felt guilty for his curt answer. He wasn’t getting into this, even if Caspar’s face was marred by a betrayed frown. There was no use, and besides, the breeze was gone and the day turning chilly. The time for napping in the courtyard was over.  
  
“Aw come on, I’m not trying to upset ya or anything,” Caspar said, catching Linhardt’s eyes when he stood and gathered his book into his hand and brushed the loose grass from his robes. “I was just thinking.”  
  
There was an earnestness to Caspar’s voice that Linhardt always loved. It was the first thing he had loved about Caspar, before all the other reasons barreled into him with a force that threatened again and again to knock him off his feet. But like his feelings, that earnestness for now needed to be ignored. Both would get them nowhere, and as such there was also no reason to discuss or devote too much time into thinking about them.  
  
“Well I will leave you to that, then,” he said. With another wave of his hand Linhardt walked off, heading in the direction of his room. “Goodbye.”  
  
“Hey, Linhardt! Wait —“   
  
His back turned, Linhardt allowed himself a quiet sigh and a tight, nail digging clutch into the cover of his book. 

* * *

  
  
Linhardt spent the next day locked in his room. No one would think twice about it. There were plenty of times no one found his secret napping spots and he could hide away for days. His absence wouldn’t be questioned.  
  
He didn’t do much sleeping, though. Instead he distracted himself by reading a new tome cover to cover, and when his eyes ached too much to make out the words he laid with his head pressed into his forearms.  
  
It wasn’t Caspar’s fault. Linhardt knew that. He didn’t know his casual mention of the war, of what could have happened, would affect him like this. Linhardt hardly knew himself. Sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes he could think and talk about what happened over the last five years without issue. But other times…  
  
Other times it was hard to breathe. Like in the courtyard. Like when he woke up in the middle of the night with images of those he’d killed unwilling to fade the way sleep did.  
  
But when Caspar asked if he’d ever thought of fighting _him_ in the war it was too much. It was too much because of course he’d thought about it; he’d thought and he’d worried and he’d quietly panicked.  
  
Lifting his head from his arms Linhardt took a deep, staggering breath. He needed to get out of his room now. He was hungry, what little he ate the last day finally leaving him drained of energy. The worst had passed now, anyway. He wasn’t trembling, and his fingers and toes were warm again. While he tied his hair back he even managed a soft smile, thinking about how Caspar had likely forgotten the whole incident and would be back to his usual, chipper topics.  
  
Once he was as put together as he was going to get, Linhardt walked the well worn path to the dining hall. It was late afternoon — the best time to sit and eat, according to him. It was between the rush of soldiers grabbing lunch and the loud, boisterous evening crowd having dinner. Inside was muffled and quiet, and he found a seat by himself near a half open window.  
  
“Hey, there you are!”  
  
His plate was nearly empty when Caspar found him. He looked to the sound of his voice to see his friend heading straight towards him and again it was hard to take a breath. This time it wasn’t cold that stopped his heart, but a squeezing grip that only let go when Caspar reached the table.  
  
“Here I am,” he agreed, not in the least surprised he was found so quickly. Just like he thought before, he and Caspar had a magnetic pull.  
  
“I’ve been looking for you like all day,” Caspar said with a customary smile, then a playful narrowing of his eyes. “And yesterday too. Are you hiding from me?”  
  
“If I were I would be doing a better job, I think,” Linhardt answered, knowing Caspar wouldn’t spot the lie. Two times he came to Linhardt’s door looking for him yesterday, and both times he held still so as not to make a sound. “What did you need? And sit down, please. You’re making me tired just looking at you.”  
  
Caspar laughed and swung his leg over the side of the bench. He sat across from Linhardt, and the last light of the afternoon shone in from the window and hit his face, lighting it up. He blinked back the glare, though not before Linhardt noticed the way it bounced off his eyes.  
  
“Oh, right,” he said once he was settled. “Dimitri says we gotta go take care of some left over Empire troops near the Pass. We’re leaving tomorrow morning.”  
  
The news left Linhardt shaking his head, already fully against the idea. Dimitri was king now, but he still made his base in Garreg Mach for the time being. Technically if he gave orders Linhardt was obligated to follow, but Linhardt never liked technicalities to begin with.  
  
“We? Why does he need me to go?”  
  
“Well, cause we work best together, duh!” Caspar’s second laugh filled their small corner of the dining hall. The earnestness was back, and confidence to go along with it. Linhardt felt it squeeze his heart again, but was able to shake it off by taking a drink of his tea. “Everyone knows that. We’re a team.”  
  
“During the war, yes,” he said, setting the cup back down on the table with a blessedly steady hand. “Now I work alone. Here. Where I can read and sleep in peace.”  
  
“You can do that when we get back. We gotta make sure the area’s safe. You can’t read in peace if the monastery is attacked, right?”  
  
Linhardt looked at Caspar and blinked, then slowly nodded.  
  
“That is surprisingly astute, Caspar,” he praised, and was rewarded with a shine in Caspar’s eyes he thought the other boy wasn’t even aware of. “Still, I’d rather pass.”  
  
Following Dimitri’s orders meant going back into battle. It meant using his magic to heal, which was fine, but also to hurt. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. Not ever again. Not even with Caspar by his side and _especially_ not with Caspar watching him.  
  
“You can’t _pass_, Lin,” Caspar said with a fond roll of his eyes. He reached across the table and nudged Linhardt’s shoulder. The easy contact made him slide back into his seat and left a warm sensation when Caspar’s palm touched. “I’ll wake ya up in the morning, okay? Just be ready!”  
  
“I suppose I have no choice, do I?” Lindhart sighed, the sound drawn out and heavy. There would be no avoiding this, it seemed. No way to avoid pain and death. No way to avoid the memories of war while he made more of the same even now. Maybe he was made for this more than he thought.  
  
“I’ll leave my door unlocked. Just bring coffee.”  
  
“You know I will,” Caspar said, the smile back on his face giving Linhardt at least that much more light. “Okay, I’m off to get my equipment ready. I’ll see ya in the morning. Bright and early!”  
  
Linhardt watched Caspar stand from the bench and hurry away, the fading afternoon light bathing him in its glow and the breeze from the open window ruffling through his hair. He thought peace would suit Caspar well too, if it would ever stay.


	2. Chapter 2

  
The sizzle and pop of burning bodies was loudest here at their feet.  
  
It filled Linhardt’s ears, pushing out all other noise of battle. Somewhere not so distant was muffled screaming cut short, and the clang of metal on metal following by the screeching, hair raising sliding of one sword down another. But here, standing above the burning corpses, all Linhardt heard was their flesh cooking and melting away.  
  
He felt the heat, too. Rising and curling around him, filling his nostrils and forcing its way into his throat and lungs. It burned, searing and sharp. When he tried to cough nothing came out, and the sound was lost amidst the flames. He doubled over, clutching his stomach as he struggled to get a full pull of air, but each intake of breath was lined with fire and ash and death.  
  
When he thought he couldn’t possibly cough anymore he stopped. He wiped his lips and when he pulled his hand away something black and tarry clung to it. Frantic, he rubbed it on his robe but the stain remained. It was part of his skin now, and the more he tried to rub it off the more of his hand the tar covered.  
  
“Help me…”  
  
A voice rose above the buzz in Linhardt’s mind, snapping him away from scrubbing his skin on his quickly fraying clothes. He looked around, his neck aching from the sudden and sharp movements. The voice called out again, weaker and distant.  
  
Falling to his knees, Linhardt pushed through the pile of bodies. Each one he touched turned to ash under his palms, yet the mound only grew. It towered above him, stacks of lifeless eyes all focused on him.  
  
“Please,” the voice called out, and there it was — a man, younger than Linhardt himself, his face half covered with blisters and crackling skin, the muscle of his neck and shoulders exposed and angry.  
  
“I can help,” Linhardt’s own voice was raspy and painful, the coughing tearing up his throat. He hurried to place his hands on the man’s wounds, ignoring the black stain now covering him to the wrists. He conjured his magic, the gentle flow of healing power moving through his body like soothing, clear water.  
  
Except the water began to bubble and roil, and the mist of healing energy started to fizzle and steam.  
  
“No, no wait,” he gasped, and looked down at his hands to see smoke rising from them, tendrils wispy and long. “Stop!”  
  
Even as he watched flame licked his fingers, spreading down to caress his palms and finally engulf his hands. Instead of healing they burned and destroyed and hurt. The man under his care screamed, louder now than the flames and cutting through Linhardt’s mind until it was all there was.  
  
He couldn’t take his hands away; couldn’t change the things he had done. All around him bodies burned and the fire came from him, originated _inside_ him. His eyes refused to shut as he watched the black tar and flames consume his arms, his shoulders, his chest. It burned him too and he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, _he couldn’t —_  
  
Linhardt’s eyes snapped open to the dim light of his room. The rest of his body was frozen in place, the only motion the rapid beating of his heart. The first gasping breath he took broke the paralysis, then all at once he was taking lungful after lungful of air until he felt lightheaded and dizzy.  
  
He pushed down the nausea, trying to forget the images of his dream in the same way. They held tight though, and the lingering smell of something burning took the longest to fade. By the time he was breathing easy again a sliver of morning sun shone through the crack of the room’s door, rosy and bright.  
  
A knock startled him just as his eyes were threatening to close again. Reaching above him, Linhardt gripped one of the many pillows and laid it over his face, blocking the light he knew was coming when the door opened.  
  
“Linhardt?” Caspar’s voice was sweet compared to the ones Linhardt heard in his dreams. With it came the scent of coffee and grass and warm metal, and a breeze of air from outside. “Hey, Lin! Time to wake up.”  
  
“Mmph,” he mumbled, pillow solidly covering his face. “No thank you.”  
  
“Hey come on.” Caspar’s footsteps drew close and without further warning Linhardt’s body shook with the force of Caspar nudging him. “Wake up. I brought you coffee!”  
  
After another muffled complaint Linhardt removed the pillow and blinked up at Caspar, spotting the stone mug in his hand. It was a welcome sight and the aroma of the fresh coffee woke him up more than the sunlight now streaming into the room.  
  
“A good offering,” he conceded, and eagerly took the drink and grumbled his way to a seated position on the bed.  
  
“There we go,” Caspar said, laughing while Linhardt blew the steam away from the mug. “Good morning, sunshine.”  
  
Heat rose in Linhardt’s body again, though this time the source was no dream. Caspar’s gentle teasing hit him in a way it probably shouldn’t, and in way he _knew_ wasn’t intended. Still, he long since tried to deny the way he was affected by the offhand comments Caspar made.  
  
“Hey, you feeling okay? Your cheeks are a little red.”  
  
Linhardt buried his face into the mug, hiding away the flush of his cheeks at being caught. After a few sips he emerged and looked at Caspar hopefully.  
  
“If I say I’m sick do I get to stay here?”  
  
“Not a chance,” Caspar replied with a smile Linhardt thought might rival morning sunlight. He let his weight shift from one leg to the other, then looked around and gave a short sigh. “I haven’t been in here for a while. You gotta clean a little more, Linhardt. There’s nowhere to sit.”  
  
Linhardt followed his gaze, noting the books stacked and open on almost every surface. Spare clothes were draped over the chairs and a collection of empty cups cluttered among the parchment on his desk. He really hadn’t thought it was that bad until Caspar pointed it out. Now he could see it though; nothing had been taken care of in his recent memory.  
  
“Sure there is,” he said anyway, and kicked away a pile of blankets from the foot of the bed. “Here you go.”  
  
Caspar just shook his head and laughed again, the sound filling the room and banishing the last of Linhardt’s dream. _For now at least_, he thought. That was all he could count on. 

* * *

  
  
The contingent of knights left Garreg Mach just as the sun hit the courtyard. There were near thirty of them: two battalions formed neat marching lines, one lead by Caspar and the other by Leonie. Linhardt spared her a few minutes of meaningless chatter before both grew bored by it and walked in silence.  
  
Soon she and Caspar were talking though, and the conversation drew in a group of knights. They laughed and joked, filling the morning air with something less dreary than the looming battle. Linhardt opted to borrow one of the free horses and ride ahead with a small group, leaving the noise behind.  
  
He didn’t feel any of the buzzing excitement that swept through the rest of them. He just felt tired.  
  
The day went on and nightfall found the band of knights camping just outside the remnants of a battlefield. It was the ideal place to set up and by then everyone was ready for a meal and rest. Linhardt joined in as much as he could stand, then made himself comfortable in his bedroll away from any of the fires. He had a tent to set up, as most of the higher ranking soldiers and commanders did, but right then it felt too much of a hassle to arrange.  
  
Sleep came easily, though it didn’t stay long. It was broken by his usual dreams, stronger here in the midst of campfire and thinly veiled bloodlust. Each time he woke Linhardt pushed his face further into the bundle of robes that served as his pillow, and each time he attempted sleep again it took longer to settle in.  
  
When the noise of camp all but vanished, left only with the crackle of embers and the occasional shuffle of the late watch, he gave up on any more rest. Instead he squirmed out of his bedroll and rubbed at his eyes, the sallow bags beneath them growing darker each day. There were times he longed for the sleep of his school days — long, comforting naps in the sun and unbroken nights of peace. He felt that way now as he tread softly through the maze of sleeping bodies, wishing he could be as blissfully unaware as they were.  
  
He reached an opening in the trees looking over the field in the valley below. Signs of battle from as recent as six months ago were still clear, seen in the scorched earth and fallen trees and detritus of war.  
  
Sighing, Linhardt sat down with his back against a large stone. This was as good a spot as any to waste the rest of the night. He reached into the inner pocket of his robe and pulled out a book, propped it open against his knees and started to read.  
  
Some time later, Linhardt couldn’t be sure how much, he heard twigs snap behind him and the rustle of bushes. It wasn’t unusual, considering the size of their group. He only hoped whoever it was would pass him by without noticing.  
  
“Whoa, hey,” the voice behind him called out, and _of course_ it was Caspar. “Linhardt?”  
  
“Yes, it’s me.” Linhardt closed his book and looked over his shoulder to see Caspar step through the trees and make right for him. He was out of his armor, wearing only soft doeskin pants and a thin tunic. Just looking at him made Linhardt shiver and pull his own clothes tight around his body. “What are you doing out here?”  
  
“Well, you know…had to take a leak and all,” Caspar answered with a quiet chuckle. “What are _you_ doing out here?”  
  
“I couldn’t sleep.”  
  
Linhardt’s admittance made Caspar cock his head and raise his brows, like it was something he couldn’t quite make sense of. He supposed it did sound odd, coming from him. But there was no reason not to tell Caspar, and right then Linhardt hadn’t the energy to make up some excuse.  
  
“You? Couldn’t sleep? Now that’s weird.”  
  
Resting his head back against the stone, Linhardt burrowed a little deeper into his robe.  
  
“Not really,” he said, and his words came out with a puff of white in the chill air.  
  
“Huh? What do you mean?” Caspar’s voice took on a concerned note and Linhardt took a brief moment to appreciate the way Caspar could pick up on the subtle changes in the way he spoke. Maybe it was just from being friends for so long, but he could dream a little that it was more.  
  
“Nothing,” he said finally, and motioned to the patch of dirt next to him. “Sit down for a while?”  
  
“Oh, yeah, of course.”  
  
Caspar leaned his back against the rock and slumped down next to Linhardt, his knee brushing up against his. The sudden memory of scraped knees and grass stained leggings flashed in Linhardt’s mind, along with the sound of Caspar’s childish laughter and missing front teeth. He had always been there in Linhardt’s life, offering this same warm comfort he gave off now. He wondered if he was aware of it, or the way Linhardt’s heart slow down when he was around.  
  
“Sure is pretty,” Caspar said after a while, interrupting the otherwise quiet moment.  
  
Linhardt noticed then the sun was beginning to rise. It started beyond the battlefield, coming up from the horizon like fire. The dirt below was bathed in red and orange, streaks of it extending and reaching for the trees. A few pieces of metal — discarded armor, broken weapons — caught the light and glimmered, sending sharp, bright pain into Linhardt’s eyes when he saw it.   
  
“It’s a battlefield,” he said, and shook his head so his hair slipped off his shoulder and hid a portion of his face. He didn’t want Caspar to see him squeeze his eyes shut against the sight spread out in the valley. “People died out there. Their lives just ended. In pain. And blood. It’s not_ pretty_. It’s grotesque.”  
  
“Well sure.” Caspar shifted next to him, pushing his legs out in front of him. Linhardt could almost hear the thoughts moving in his head as he pieced them together and tried to find a characteristically optimistic way to spin what Linhardt said. “People died there. But thing’s are better because of it, right? Look at everything that’s happening now. The country’s united. Big battles like the one here won’t happen again. Its like, they didn’t die for nothing. They died so less people will die now.”  
  
Linhardt knew Caspar believed what he said. He could hear it in the way his voice rose half an octave and banished a bit of the cold. He held so tight to what he believed it almost made Linhardt want to feel that confidence too.  
  
But he couldn’t. Not when his dreams still lingered.  
  
“We’re on our way to kill people right now,” he added softly, the dawn nearly snuffing out his words.  
  
“Ah, yeah…” Caspar’s shoulders slumped and he let out a long breath, the white cloud of heat coalescing then dispersing around his lips. Linhardt watched it through a break in his hair, aching at the way he knowingly poked a hole in Caspar’s enthusiasm.  
  
He should be happy Casapr had his own way of dealing with the reality of war. He should be happy his friend could be happy. But sometimes it wasn’t enough. Sometimes he wanted company in the shadows that never seemed to leave him for long.  
  
It wasn’t fair. He knew it wasn’t fair.  
  
“Hey, Linhardt,” Caspar’s voice was soft again, and this time Linhart tucked his hair behind his ear so he could face him. “I know you don’t wanna fight. So just stick close to me, okay? I’ll do it for you.”  
  
The ache in Linhardt’s chest grew, filling every bit and piece of him.  
  
“I don’t want you to fight either,” he answered, and instead of arguing or moving away he laid his head on Caspar’s shoulder. The sun was above the horizon now, the red light painting both of them just like it did the valley. He closed his eyes, the pull of sleep as strong as Caspar’s steady breathing.  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey 6 months later here's an update. Whoops. Hopefully more will come much sooner.

This time the bodies weren’t a dream.

There were fewer of them, and none smoldered with recent flame, but they were there. Amid the battle soldiers fell and left their bodies behind, littering the packed earth beneath them. It was no new sight to Linhardt, but that didn’t make it easier to ignore. 

“You good, Linhardt?”

Linhardt looked away from the lifeless eyes of an Imperial solider, blood thick and coating half their face. Standing above them was Caspar, axe two sizes too big from him held easily in his hand. The blade dripped, slick and wet, dropping blood back onto the dead man. 

As the blood caught a stray beam of light and glimmered in the sun Linhardt fought back a wave of dizziness. They had been moving since dawn, and fighting now for what felt like hours. His legs ached and his robe was damp and heavy with sweat. Worse than that was nausea and lightheadedness when they stopped like this, pausing to breathe. When he was still, Linhardt noticed the bodies and the blood. 

“Hardly,” he answered finally, tearing his eyes from Caspar’s weapon. Instead he focused on his eyes, holding and grounding him. He waved ahead to where a group of their allies were engaging with more Imperials. “Keep going. The faster you are the faster this is over.”

Caspar hesitated in a way that set Linhardt on edge. Caspar never hesitated. He seemed on the verge of saying something more, his mouth opening slightly before his lips pressed together again in a tight line. He nodded, turned on his heel, and began an easy jog towards the fray.

Linhardt watched him go for an instant before starting off after him. Whatever it was he was about to say must have lost out to the immediacy of the moment. Still, to give Caspar pause at all it must have been something significant. Or maybe it was just another question of concern for Linhardt; he knew he must look paler than half the corpses they left behind. 

Pushing the thought aside, Linhardt gave himself time for one more breath before running after Caspar. He would never catch up if the other didn’t slow or stop, but that wasn’t his main goal anyway. His intent was to stay just a bit behind and in reserve in case he was needed. 

The battle progressed steadily in that way, with Linhardt always somewhere near where Caspar and his squad were engaging the enemy. It was during a skirmish late in the afternoon when his skills were needed the most — one of their team was knocked to the ground by a well placed axe blow, blood splashing from her body the instant it made contact.

Caspar was there to deal with the enemy in one swift movement. They fell to his feet, their body now laying next to the one from their own squad. 

“Ah, shit. Eloisa is hurt,” Caspar groaned, half his attention on the girl and half eyeing the fast approaching comrade of the solider he had just killed. “Lin, you got it?”

Linhardt reached Caspar just as he finished speaking. His breath was short, his side aching from the effort of speeding up when he saw Eloisa go down. He could have healed her from a distance, but it would have been wasted if she was already dead. Now that he was here he saw the shallow rise and fall of her breathing and felt confident in using his magic. 

“That’s what I’m here for,” he managed to say, and shooed Caspar off. Kneeling in the dirt, he placed his hands on Eloisa’s shoulders and channeled the magic that was always flowing just beneath his skin. The wound on her body began to stitch itself closed, her skin knitting together in clean, even lines. As he watched the color returned to her face and she gave him a shaky smile; conscious and recovering.

“Head back to the base,” he told her. “The way should be clear.”

When she ran off, slower than before the attack, Linhardt turned back to find Caspar. It was then he noticed something Caspar couldn’t: an Imperial wielding a sword, poised just within striking distance of Caspar while he was busy fending off another attacker. 

“Caspar!” 

Linhardt called out as loud as he was able, and was shocked to hear the strength of his own voice. It was laced with fear, and suddenly the battle around them faded completely. The only thing he saw was Caspar and the two men around him, each of them silhouetted by the afternoon sun. The glint off their weapons almost blinded him, sharp, stark pain behind his eyes as he strained to keep them open less he missed a vital moment. 

Caspar’s body half turned to the sound of his name, but by then the sword wielder was already moving to strike. For one long, infinite second Linhardt saw realization dawn in Caspar’s eyes — candy blue and clear. 

Without hesitation Linhardt threw his hands up and once again called forth his magic. This time it wasn’t the soft, healing waves he spent so long perfecting, but the heat of fire rushing out of him like a wild storm. He felt it against his face, not warm like the sun but hot like coals glowing deep and angry red. It hurtled through the air, leaving an acrid fizzle of smoke in its wake until colliding with its target. 

The man’s scream pierced through the battlefield, shrill and strangling. The fire didn’t stop at just grazing him; it engulfed him entirely. Skin melted and flesh sloughed off, dripping into puddles on the blood soaked ground. Linhardt watched as the man fell, then remained still even while his body continued to burn.

“Whoa.” 

Caspar’s voice sounded far away. It tugged at Linhardt, pulling him back to the present and away from the carnage he’d caused. When he looked away and up he saw Casapar standing above him. He must have fallen to his knees again, and the dirt and blood was now that much closer. 

“Thanks, Linhardt,” Caspar said, and clasped his hand on Linhardt’s shoulder, further anchoring him. The fog in his mind lifted enough for him to even notice the body of the other solider, lifeless next to the first. “You really saved me there.”

Caspar. Caspar was okay. 

Linhardt pushed himself to his feet, gripping Caspar’s arm for stability. He stared at him while he recovered from the shock, his eyes holding on to Caspar’s in relief. If he hadn’t acted those eyes might now be clouded over, just like those of the men on the ground nearby. If hadn’t killed then Caspar might not have been here to help him to his feet.

“Its…that’s what I’m here for,” he said, and the strength that recently bolstered his voice was gone. 

* * *

The battle ended before the sun set. There were casualties on both sides, but the force from Garreg Mach suffered fewer. The Imperial enemy retreated to the south, leaving their dead scattered behind. Healers worked for hours after, tending to the wounded and seeing to those too far gone to recover.

Caspar helped where he could, too. Most of his work was retrieving supplies and weapons from the field and setting up camp for the evening. It kept him busy, and before he knew it the sun was long gone and the campfires were well into their smoldering. 

Much of the camp was having a well deserved sleep. He scanned the groups of tents as he walked through the area, looking for the tell-tale tint of Linhardt’s hair. Since they arrived back at camp he hadn’t seen him, though that wasn’t cause enough to worry. He had probably been with the other healers. 

It was late now though, and Caspar wanted to check on his friend. The day had been hard for him. Caspar was certain of that. Linhardt tried to hide it, but the fear and guilt in his eyes after delivering a killing blow always stood out clear to Caspar. He had seen it before, during the war — at first on the open field with their Professor watching over them, then again and again too many times over to count. Seeing Linhardt’s eyes dim and close off to the world never got easier, but Caspar couldn’t stop watching them, either. 

After a while of searching he found Linhardt’s tent. It was set off by itself, like usual. The flicker of the nearest fire just reached its edges, dancing lightly up the canvas until fading into dark. Walking up, Caspar pulled aside the covering flap of fabric and peeked inside.  
  
“Lin?” 

The only reply was a rustle of fabric. Caspar leaned in farther, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. 

When he stepped fully into the tent he heard another nose — this one low and strained. A muffled cry and whine filled the tent, and the rustling of fabric grew more hurried, like whatever was moving it was trashing about.

“Hey, Linhardt,” Caspar said again, louder this time. He covered the few steps to where he could now make out Linhardt’s body, tangled in blankets that his dreaming hands tried to rip away. Linhardt cried out again, his eyes squeezed shut but his mouth forming mangled pleas. 

Caspar’s heart spiked at the pain in his friend’s voice. He knelt down and reached out to him, his hands clasping his shoulders and gently shaking. An often repeated saying came back to him, about how it was dangerous to wake someone in the middle of a nightmare, but he couldn’t stand to let Linhardt suffer through whatever it was he was seeing.  
  
“Oh, buddy. Wake up,” he said, his voice pleading in his own way. “Come on, wake up.” 

Instead of waking, Linhardt flinched away from the touch. His breathing grew sharper, his whines more drawn out, reminding Caspar of a horse he’d once seen dying on the battlefield. With renewed force, he shook Linhardt again, praying to the Goddess for the first time in his adult life to _please just help him_. 

She must have heard him, because Linhardt’s eyes suddenly snapped open. He bolted up to sitting position, his head turning from one side to the other as he looked around the room in a panic. His gaze finally settled on Caspar and for a brief instant he saw a panic in Linhardt’s eyes he had never experienced before.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said quickly, though at that moment nothing felt quite okay. But he would have said anything to chase that look out of his eyes. “You’re okay, Lin. I’ve got you. Everything is okay.” 

To punctuate his words Caspar moved a hand from Linhardt’s shoulder to his back and pulled him close, letting the heat of his body and the familiarity of his presence reassure him. In return Linhardt wrapped his arms around him, the force almost knocking Caspar back.

“C-Caspar,” he choked out, stuttering over the name even as he clung to Caspar’s broad shoulders. “I d-didn’t want to —“

“I know,” Caspar interrupted, and he _did_ know. He understood. Linhardt didn’t need to say more. He knew from the beginning. He knew and he should have _done something_. Something so Linhardt didn’t need to fight back fear even in his dreams.

Linhardt shook in Caspar’s arms, his lips moving before he could finally get more words out. 

“But you were — and I couldn’t —“ 

“It’s okay. It’s really okay.” Caspar squeezed his eyes shut, willing the image of a panicked and terrified Linhardt away. When he opened his eyes he was still there, though, and Caspar could only hold him tighter. 

“I’m gonna stay right here with you. Just let it out. I’m right here.” 

Whatever had been holding Linhardt back slipped away. He buried his face into Caspar’s chest and cried: sobs that wracked his body and wet the thin undershirt Caspar was wearing. He shook and dug his nails in Caspar’s back, the pain bright and fresh but one that Caspar would endure without question.

While he listened to the choked cries Caspar mumbled soft, meaningless words. He didn’t know what to say that would comfort Linhardt, but he had to say something. He needed to fill the gaps between sobs with something soft. With something Linhardt could reach for. 

Caspar couldn’t say for certain how long Linhardt cried. Eventually he quieted, though, and his body, exhausted and spent, melted into Caspar’s. The weight pulled them both down, and Caspar laid with Linhardt across his chest, his back flat on the tangled mess of blankets. 

Linhardt’s breathing slowed, his eyes closed. Caspar watched as sleep took him again, this time dreamless. As his own chest rose and fell he saw Linhardt’s do the same, and he felt steady breath tickle across his damp shirt and shock his skin beneath. 

Lifting his hand, Caspar ran it through Linhardt’s hair, starting near his scalp and sliding all the way to the feathery ends. It felt like silk beneath his fingers, precious and fine and something to be treasured. 

And Linhardt _was_ something to be treasured. Caspar’s breath hitched in his throat as he realized, then expelled in one soft exhale. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for the man curled against him. There was nothing in the world more important to him than keeping Linhardt right here — safe, free from nightmares, _close._

“I’m sorry, Linhardt,” he whispered. His fingers continued to card through Linhardt’s hair, now finding comfort for himself in the action, too. “I promise you won’t ever have to do that again. I promise.” 

He wasn’t sure it was a promise he could keep. War was like that; Caspar knew better than most. He would do all he could, though. To keep Linhardt from causing pain that only came back to him a hundred fold, and to keep him far, far away from the blood and death that Caspar had seemed to fall right into. 

“It’s okay, Lin,” he repeated again, this last time more for himself. “I’ve got you. I’ve_ always_ got you.” 


End file.
